A Trick of the Light cig-7

by Penny, Louise

  “Well, first we have to find ourselves. Somewhere along the way we got lost. Ended up wandering around in a confusion of drugs and alcohol. Getting further and further away from who we really are.” She turned to him, a smile on her face again. “But some of us find our way back. From the wilderness.” Suzanne looked up from Gamache’s deep brown eyes, from the village green and homes and shops, to the forest and mountains surrounding them. “Getting sloshed was only part of the problem. This is a disease of the emotions. Of perception.” She tapped her temple a few times. “We get all screwy in how we see things, how we think. We call it stinking thinking. And that affects how we feel. And I can tell you, Chief Inspector, that it’s very hard and very scary to change our perceptions. Most can’t do it. But a lucky few do. And in doing that, we find ourselves and,” she looked around, “we find home.”

  “You have to change your head to change your heart?” Gamache asked.

  Suzanne didn’t answer. Instead she continued to gaze at the village. “How interesting that no cell phones work here. And not a car has come by since we’ve been walking. I wonder if the outside world even knows it’s here.”

  “It’s an anonymous village,” said Gamache. “Not on any map. You have to find your own way here.” He turned to his companion. “Are you sure Lillian had actually stopped drinking?”

  “Oh, yes, from her first meeting.”

  “And when was that?”

  Suzanne considered for a moment. “About eight months ago.”

  Gamache did the calculation. “So she arrived in AA in October. Do you know why?”

  “You mean, did anything happen? No. For some, like Brian, something terrible happens. The world falls apart. They shatter. For others it’s quieter, almost imperceptible. More a crumble. Inside. That’s what happened to Lillian.”

  Gamache nodded. “Had you ever been to her home?”

  “No. We always met in a café or at my place.”

  “Had you seen her art?”

  “No. She told me she’d started painting again but I didn’t see it. Didn’t want to.”

  “Why not? As an artist yourself I’d have thought you’d be interested.”

  “I was, actually. I’m afraid I’m pretty nosy. But it seemed a no-win. If it was great I might become jealous, and that wouldn’t be good. And if it sucked, what would I say? So no, I hadn’t seen her art.”

  “Would you really have been jealous of your sponsee? That doesn’t sound like the relationship you described.”

  “That was an ideal. I’m close to perfection, as you’ve no doubt noticed, but not quite there yet,” Suzanne laughed at herself. “It’s my only flaw. Jealousy.”

  “And nosiness.”

  “My two flaws. Jealousy and nosiness. And I’m bossy. Oh, God. I really am fucked up.”

  She laughed.

  “And I understand you’re in debt.”

  That stopped Suzanne in her tracks. “How’d you know that?” She stared at him and when Gamache didn’t respond she gave a resigned nod. “Of course you’d find out. Yes, I’m in debt. Never was good with money and now that apparently I’m not allowed to steal, life is much more difficult.”

  She gave him a disarming smile. “Another flaw to add to the growing list.”

  A growing list indeed, thought Gamache. What else was she not telling him? It struck him as strange that two artists wouldn’t compare work. That Lillian wouldn’t show her paintings to her sponsor. For approval, for feedback.

  And what would Suzanne do? She’d see their brilliance, and then what? Kill Lillian in a jealous rage?

  It seemed unlikely.

  But it did seem strange that in eight months of an intimate relationship Suzanne had never once visited Lillian’s place. Never seen her art.

  Then something else occurred to Gamache. “Was AA the first time you met, or did you know each other before that?”

  He could tell he’d hit on something. The smile never wavered, but her eyes grew sharper.

  “As a matter of fact, we did know each other. Though ‘know’ isn’t quite right. We’d bump into each other at shows years ago. Before she left for New York. But we were never friends.”

  “Were you friendly?”

  “After a few drinks? I was more than friendly, Chief Inspector.” And Suzanne laughed.

  “But not, presumably, with Lillian.”

  “Well, not in that way,” agreed Suzanne. “Look, the truth is, I wasn’t worth her while. She was the big, important critic for La Presse and I was just another drunken artist. And between us? That was just fine with me. She was such a bitch. Famous for it. No amount of booze would make approaching Lillian a good idea.”

  Gamache thought for a moment, then resumed walking.

  “How long have you been in AA?” he asked.

  “Twenty-three years last March eighteenth.”

  “Twenty-three years?” He was astonished, and it showed.

  “You should have seen me when I first came in,” she laughed. “Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. What you see is the result of twenty-three years of hard labor.”

  They passed the front of the terrasse. Beauvoir gestured toward his beer and Gamache nodded.

  “Twenty-three years,” repeated Gamache when they resumed their walk. “You stopped drinking about the time Lillian left for New York.”

  “I guess I did.”

  “Was that just coincidence?”

  “She wasn’t part of my life. Lillian had nothing to do with me getting drunk or getting sober.”

  Suzanne’s voice had developed an edge. A slight annoyance.

  “Do you still paint?” Gamache asked.

  “Some. Mostly I dabble. Take some courses, teach some courses, go to vernissages where there’s free food and drink.”

  “Did Lillian mention Clara or her show?”

  “She never mentioned Clara, not by name anyway. But she did say she needed to make amends to a lot of artists and dealers and gallery owners. Clara might have been among them.”

  “And were they among them, do you think?” With a small movement of his head Gamache indicated the two people sitting on the porch of the B and B, watching them.

  “Paulette and Normand? No, she didn’t talk about them either. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she owed them an apology. She wasn’t very nice when she was drinking.”

  “Or writing. He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function,” quoted Gamache.

  “Oh, you know about that, do you?”

  “Obviously you do too.”

  “Every artist in Québec knows that. It was Lillian’s finest moment. As a critic, that is. Her pièce de résistance. A near perfect assassination.”

  “Do you know who it was about?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Would I be asking?”

  Suzanne studied Gamache for a moment. “You might. You’re very tricky, I think. But no, I don’t know.”

  A near perfect assassination. And that was what it had been. Lillian had delivered a mortal blow with that line. Had the victim waited decades and then returned the favor?

  * * *

  “Mind if I join you?”

  But it was too late. Myrna had taken a seat, and once down she was not ever going to be easy to shift.

  Beauvoir looked at her. His expression was not very inviting.

  “Fine. No problem.”

  He scanned the terrasse. A few others were sitting at tables in the sunshine, nursing beers or lemonades or iced tea. But there were some empty tables. Why had Myrna decided to sit with him?

  The only possible answer was the only one he dreaded.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  That she wanted to talk. He took a long sip of beer.

  “I’m doing well, thank you.”

  Myrna nodded, playing with the moisture on her own beer glass.

  “Nice day,” she finally said.

  Beauvoir continued to stare ahead, judging this wasn’t worth responding to. Perhaps
she’d get the point. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

  “What’re you thinking about?”

  Now he did look at her. There was a mild expression on her face. Interested, but not piercing. Not searching.

  A pleasant look.

  “The case,” he lied.

  “I see.”

  They both looked over to the village green. There wasn’t much activity. Ruth was trying to stone the birds, a few villagers were working in their gardens. One was walking a dog. And the Chief Inspector and some strange woman were walking along the dirt road.

  “Who’s she?”

  “Someone who knew the dead woman,” said Beauvoir. No need to say too much.

  Myrna nodded and took a few plump cashews from the bowl of mixed nuts.

  “It’s good to see the Chief Inspector looking so much better. Has he recovered do you think?”

  “Of course he has. Long ago.”

  “Well, it could hardly be long ago,” she said, reasonably. “Since it only happened just before Christmas.”

  Was that all it was, Beauvoir asked himself, amazed. Only six months? It seemed ages ago.

  “Well, he’s fine, as am I.”

  “Fucked up, insecure, neurotic and egotistical? Ruth’s definition of fine?”

  This brought an involuntary smile to his lips. He tried to turn it into a grimace, but couldn’t quite.

  “I can’t speak for the Chief, but I think that’s just about right for me.”

  Myrna smiled and took a sip of her beer. She followed Beauvoir, who was following Gamache.

  “It wasn’t your fault, you know.”

  Beauvoir tensed, an involuntary spasm. “What d’you mean?”

  “What happened, in the factory. To him. There was nothing you could have done.”

  “I know that,” he snapped.

  “I wonder if you do. It must’ve been horrible, what you saw.”

  “Why’re you saying this?” Beauvoir demanded, his head in a whirl. Everything was suddenly topsy-turvy.

  “Because I think you need to hear it. You can’t always save him.” Myrna looked at the tired young man across from her. He was suffering, she knew. And she also knew only two things could produce such pain so long after the event.

  Love. And guilt.

  “Things are strongest where they’re broken,” she said.

  “Where did you hear that?” He glared at her.

  “I read it in an interview the Chief Inspector gave, after the raid. And he’s right. But it takes a long time, and a lot of help, to mend. You probably thought he was dead.”

  Beauvoir had. He’d seen the Chief shot. Fall. And lie still.

  Dead or dying. Beauvoir had been sure of it.

  And he’d done nothing to help him.

  “There was nothing you could do,” said Myrna, rightly interpreting his thoughts. “Nothing.”

  “How do you know?” demanded Beauvoir. “How can you know?”

  “Because I saw it. On the video.”

  “And you think that tells you everything?” he demanded.

  “Do you really believe there was more you could’ve done?”

  Beauvoir turned away, feeling the familiar ache in his belly turn into jabs of pain. He knew Myrna was trying to be kind but he just wished she’d go away.

  She hadn’t been there. He had, and he’d never believe there was nothing more he could have done.

  The Chief had saved his life. Dragged him to safety. Bandaged him. But when Gamache himself had been hurt it had been Agent Lacoste who’d fought her way to him. Saved the Chief’s life.

  While he himself had done nothing. Just lay there. Watching.

  * * *

  “You liked her?” Gamache asked.

  They’d come full circle and were now standing on the village green, just across from the terrasse. He could see André Castonguay and François Marois sitting at a table, enjoying lunch. Or at least, enjoying the food if not the company. They didn’t seem to be talking much.

  “I did,” said Suzanne. “She’d become kind. Thoughtful even. Happy. I didn’t expect to like her when she first dragged her sorry ass into the church basement. We weren’t exactly best friends before she’d left for New York. But we were both younger then, and drunker. And I suspect neither of us was very nice. But people change.”

  “Are you so sure Lillian had?”

  “Are you so sure I have?” Suzanne laughed.

  It was, Gamache had to admit, a good question.

  And then another question occurred to him. One he was surprised he hadn’t thought of earlier.

  “How did you find Three Pines?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The village. It’s almost impossible to find. And yet, here you are.”

  “He drove me down.”

  Gamache turned and looked to where she was pointing. Past the terrasse and into a window, where a man stood, his back to them. A book in his hand.

  Though the Chief Inspector couldn’t see his face Gamache did recognize the rest of the man. Thierry Pineault was standing at the window of Myrna’s bookstore.

  NINETEEN

  Clara Morrow sat in the car, staring at the decrepit old apartment building. It was a far cry from the pretty little home the Dysons had lived in when Clara knew them.

  For the whole drive in she’d been remembering her friendship with Lillian. The mind-numbing Christmas job they got together sorting mail. Then later, as lifeguards. That’d been Lillian’s idea. They’d taken the lifesaving courses and passed their swim exams together. Helping each other. Sneaking out behind the life preserver shed for smokes, and tokes.

  They’d been on the school volleyball and track teams together. They’d spotted each other at gymnastics.

  There was barely a good memory from Clara’s childhood that didn’t include Lillian.

  And Mr. and Mrs. Dyson were always there too. As kindly supporting characters. In the background, like the Peanuts parents. Rarely seen, but somehow there were always egg salad sandwiches, and fruit salad and warm chocolate chip cookies. There was always a pitcher of bright pink lemonade.

  Mrs. Dyson had been short, rotund, with thinning hair always in place. She’d seemed old but Clara realized she was younger than Clara was now. And Mr. Dyson had been tall, wiry, with curly red hair. That looked, in the bright sunshine, like rust on his head.

  No. There was no doubt, and Clara was appalled at herself for ever questioning it. This was the right thing to do.

  After giving up on an elevator she climbed the three flights, trying not to notice the stale smells of tobacco and dope and urine.

  She stood in front of their closed door. Staring. Catching her breath from an exertion not wholly physical.

  Clara closed her eyes and conjured up little Lillian, standing in green shorts and a T-shirt, framed by her door. Smiling. Inviting little Clara in.

  Then Clara Morrow knocked on the door.

  * * *

  “Chief Justice,” said Gamache, offering his hand.

  “Chief Inspector,” said Thierry Pineault, taking it and shaking.

  “There can be too many chiefs after all,” said Suzanne. “Let’s grab a table.”

  “We can join Inspector Beauvoir,” said Gamache, ushering them toward his Inspector, who’d gotten up and was indicating his table.

  “I’d rather we sat over here,” said Chief Justice Pineault. Suzanne and Gamache paused. Pineault was indicating a table shoved up against the brick building, in the least attractive area.

  “More discreet,” Pineault explained, seeing their puzzled expressions. Gamache raised a brow but agreed, waving Beauvoir over. Chief Justice Pineault sat first, his back to the village. Gabri took their orders.

  “Will this bother you?” Gamache asked, pointing to the beers Beauvoir had brought over.

  “Not at all,” said Suzanne.

  “I tried to call you this morning,” said Gamache.

  Gabri put their drinks on the table and wh
ispered to Beauvoir, “Who’s this other guy?”

  “The Chief Justice of Québec.”

  “Of course he is.” Gabri shot Beauvoir an annoyed look and left.

  “And what did my secretary say?” asked Pineault, taking a sip of his Perrier and lime.

  “Only that you were working from home,” said Gamache.

  Pineault smiled. “I am, sort of. I’m afraid I didn’t specify which home.”

  “You’ve decided to come down to the one in Knowlton?”

  “Is this an interrogation, Chief Inspector? Should I get a lawyer?”

  The smile was still in place but neither man was under any illusion. Close questioning the Chief Justice of Québec was a risky thing to do.

  Gamache smiled back. “This is a friendly conversation, Mr. Justice. I’m hoping you can help.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Thierry. Just tell the man what he wants to know. Isn’t that why we’re here?”

  Gamache regarded Suzanne across the table. Their lunches had arrived and she was shoveling terrine of duck into her mouth. It was a gesture not of greed, but of fear. She all but had her arm around her plate. Suzanne didn’t want someone else’s food. She wanted just her own. And she was willing to defend it, if need be.

  But, between mouthfuls, Suzanne had asked an interesting question.

  Why, if not to help his investigation, was Thierry Pineault there?

  “Oh, I’m here to help,” Pineault said, casually. “It was an instinctive reaction, I’m afraid, Chief Inspector. A lawyer’s reaction. My apologies.”

  Gamache noticed something else. While the Chief Justice seemed happy to challenge him, the head of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec, he never challenged Suzanne, the sometime artist and full-time waitress. In fact he took her little mocking jabs, her criticisms, her flamboyant gestures, all with great equilibrium. Was it manners?

  The Chief didn’t think so. He had the impression the Chief Justice was somehow cowed by Suzanne. As though she had something on him.

  “I asked him to bring me down,” said Suzanne. “I knew he’d want to help.”

  “Why? I know Suzanne here cared about Lillian. Did you too, sir?”

  The Chief Justice turned clear, cool eyes on Gamache. “Not in the manner you’re imagining.”